


Confluence

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Gods are mostly dicks, Life after resurrection, M/M, Made up mystical mumbo jumbo, Multi, Non-Human Stiles, Plot!, Resurrection, WIP (sorry...)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-03-25 13:13:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3811840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I want you to fix what you have broken." </p><p>Tartarus sneers.</p><p>“And if I don’t? What will you do then <em>Statera</em>?”</p><p>Stiles looks at the other God calmly. </p><p>“I will wipe you from existence.”</p><p>--</p><p>Or: Stiles is a God. No, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tartarus

Stiles kneels naked at the foot of the dais, painting patterns on his skin with a cool purple poultice made from ground lapis lazuli, a rare red wolfsbane, and tears of deep grief from an alpha werewolf. He can feel their despair leak into his skin with every rune he paints, strengthening his resolve, lending him the strength of a leader. Of a true alpha. 

Scott cries too much these days. Just one of the many things Stiles needs to fix.

Stiles smells Rashid coming before he sees her. Her scent is unique: wet earth and honey-suckle under the summer sun with just the smallest hint of the rich darkness associated with the supernatural. She stands by his shoulder as he works, silent as a sentinel. She will not speak unless spoken to and Stiles is almost tempted to say nothing at all.

“What is it Rashid?” he asks instead, because cruelty has never come easily to Stiles.

Rashid says nothing for a long moment, watching as Stiles paints the largest rune, one of channelling, over his pale chest. Stiles moves on to his stomach: painting protection, truth, connection and good fortune down either side of his ribs and over his abdomen. Once he’s finished painting the connection runes Stiles digs his hands into the earth and drags back two handfuls of mud which he places in the small rowan bowl he carved this morning from the roots of the oldest tree in the preserve. 

A lot of hard work went into preparing for this ritual: blood, sweat, and tears—literally— but after tonight it will all be worth it. 

Wiping his hands on the grass, Stiles reaches into his small satchel bag and finds his bone-handled knife. He runs his thumb over the blunt edge and it comes to life under his touch. 

“I wonder,” says Rashid, slow and considering. Stiles cannot see her eyes but he imagines they are dark and far away, wandering through some far-off world Stiles will never know the name of; a memory Stiles will never know the story behind. By now Stiles has made his peace with the idea that Rashid knows more about the universe than she will ever tell him. “I wonder if this is wise.”

The knife glints impossibly bright in the moonlight and when it touches his skin Stiles can feel it hum with the power of all its past bearers. Stiles makes a small cut in his palm, just enough to let a shallow bowl of blood pool in his palm, eleven drops worth. He must be exact. The cut closes itself once he has enough blood and Stiles whispers a small thank you to the knife, smiling when the magic gives him a fond caress before going dormant once more. 

Putting the knife aside, Stiles kneads his blood through the dirt until it takes on a dull red shine in the light and he can feel the power of land and legacy between his fingers. He places the mixture back into the bowl and rises to his feet, looking back at Rashid. 

“It’s your job to wonder about me Rashid. I’d be worried if you thought any differently.” says Stiles.

Tonight she’s dressed in a simple navy wrap dress belted at the waist, her long dark hair wild and unbound around her face. Under the moonlight her skin looks as dark as the earth under their feet. Her eyes when they finally meet his are fathomless and deep as polished onyx.

“If you heeded my warnings I would not need to worry,” says Rashid. 

“If I did that I wouldn’t get to do anything Rashid.” Stiles feels the old anger rise in him, from a time when he still believed himself to be the only spoke on the supernatural wheel of Beacon Hills. When Rashid let him believe it. He has the pack now, and Lydia, but the memory of that solitude still aches. “Why have these powers at all if I don’t _use_ them? It’s my responsibility. That’s what you’ve always taught me.”

“I taught you to protect the balance Mikael. Not…not this.” Rashid gestures towards the ritual at large. “This is not protection of the established order. This is its subversion”

Stiles looks at Rashid, looks into her eyes. Those eyes that see everything clearly except for him. It took a long time for Stiles to realise there are some things Rashid cannot understand; things that Stiles cannot justify to her. Instinct and understanding Stiles can only feel deep in that place inside himself that holds his hidden nature, his true power. Rashid is a watcher, eternal and all-seeing, but she does not exist in the human realm the way Stiles does. She is visible only to beings of the middle realm, people like Stiles who walk in both the spirit world and the human world. She does not know humanity. She does not know the true price of balance.

“There’s only so much you can teach me,” says Stiles quietly. 

Rashid shakes her head, clearly frustrated.

“In all my years I have never seen a reason to wake the dead. It is forbidden for a reason. It is unnatural Mikael,” says Rashid. Her eyes are slightly panicked now, perhaps sensing she is losing his interest, her throat bobbing as she tries to swallow her fear. “You do not know what will come of this.”

Stiles places a hand on her shoulder, still wet with blood and dirt and poultice.

Stiles looks into her eyes, remembers the comfort of her embrace in the unnatural cold of the hospital waiting room where the daemon took his mother away for the final time so many years ago. Stiles feels a deep swell of affection for Rashid. Everything she has ever done has been to try and protect him and this time is no different. 

Rashid is not meant to interfere in human affairs. It is not what she is. A year or so ago when Stiles reached his majority she finally told him she was assigned to Stiles merely as a guide, to teach him his role and his responsibilities as an agent of balance. She was never meant to get attached. Never meant to stay. 

Watchers never stay in one place for long.

Stiles steps close and bows their heads together, careful not to smudge the poultice covering his skin from feet to throat. Rashid is the closest thing he has to a mother and he will never deny her feelings for him, but this is something he has to do.

“I know the price of what I’m doing. I understand. Stand back Rashid,” says Stiles. Rashid hesitates and Stiles leans back, looks into her eyes. “Trust me.”

Rashid collects herself, sweeping calm composure over her form like a cloak. She steps out of the moonstone circle Stiles placed earlier and melts back into the trees surrounding the glen. 

Stiles breathes out a sigh once she’s gone and wind sweeps through the valley, tickling his bare skin and making the runes tingle, magic warm and pulsating. Stiles looks up at the sky and sees the moon is almost in position through a thin smattering of clouds. 

He gets started.

Digging through his bag, Stiles retrieves a small glass vial. He kneels in front of the rowan bowl and tips the individual strands of hair into his palm. There are nine; one for each member of the pack. 

“ _Ignis_ ,” whispers Stiles. 

His palm catches fire, the hair reduced immediately to ash. With a thought the flame dies and Stiles places the ash in the rowan bowl along with the blood and earth mixture. He waves his hand over the bowl, watching the contents shimmer like a mirage and change form. He picks up the bowl, careful not to spill any of the liquid inside and climbs to his feet. Just to be sure, Stiles checks the circumference of the moonstone barrier before he begins, looking for any break in the circle. It is important this kind of magic is contained for the protection of the town as well as the safety of those inside the circle. Stiles doesn’t want any hunters coming across them tonight. There’s too much at stake. He won’t get another chance at this for a year when the planets are once again in the right alignment. He cannot fail. Not this time.

Stiles takes a deep breath to steel his nerves and steps up onto the dais, placing the rowan bowl as an offering at his feet. On his right hand he wears a ring of red jasper to ground his lower chakras and bring balance to his physical body and on his right he wears one of Himalayan quarts to help facilitate his connection to Tartarus. It is all he wears. Any other time Stiles might feel self-conscious about being naked in the middle of the woods. Not now though. Now it feels right.

Stiles closes his eyes and lets his true nature come forth. It’s like a dam bursting. One minute he’s contained in his human skin and the next he’s cracking free of it, silver wings the colour of the moon bursting from his back, easily twice as long as Stiles is tall. They unfurl to their full extent and beat against the open air, stirring up a gale that sweeps through the valley, bending trees and uprooting rocks, but leaving the ritual sight undisturbed. Stiles rolls his shoulders, sighing in pleasure at the phantom weight of his wings. They only have as much weight as Stiles wishes of course, being composed of starlight and spirit energy, but he imagines them heavy enough to ground him to the earth yet light enough to keep him buoyant on his feet. His power settles around him, ozone and crackling life energy, capable and aching to be used.

He’s ready.

When Stiles opens his eyes they are silver, brighter and more luminous even than his wings, a companion to the bone-blade in his satchel. He can see differently in this form. He can see everything. The whole of the earth and beyond if he wants to. Nothing is hidden from him if he wishes to look, but right now he only has eyes for the graves at his feet; eleven of them freshly dug and covered mere hours ago, and the bones resting deep within the Earth.

“ _Tartarus_ ,” Stiles summons and the whole of Beacon Hills would shake if not for the moonstone. As it is, only the ground within the circle quakes as Tartarus makes his ascent. Stiles swallows his nerves and straightens his stance.

 _Show time_ , Stile thinks and sends out a prayer to his forefathers for strength and guidance. 

At the foot of the dais the Earth cracks open like a broken egg, spreading until it’s forced to stop at the edge of the circle. Deep purple light the colour of fermenting plums spills out from the crack in the Earth and curls around the foot of the dais where Stiles stands. On his skin the runes begin to glow as Tartarus draws himself out of the crack between worlds and into the human realm. 

Tartarus has taken the form of a young man, blonde and roguishly handsome. He is cloaked in a long trailing robe the same purple as his aura and his eyes when they meet Stiles’ are light and quick with a darker, more dangerous kind of mischief than Stiles’ own. 

A slow smile spreads across the Gods face. “ _Statera_ ,” says Tartarus, voice higher and sharper than Stiles would have expected from the God of Death. “To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure of your summoning?”

“I need you to return some things you stole,” says Stiles, keeping his voice placid and even. 

_Channel Deaton_ , he thinks.

Tartarus gives him a quick little smirk and strolls towards the circle limits, walking the edge like Stiles had, searching for any weaknesses in the barrier. Obviously finding none, he huffs a little sigh and props himself up against the invisible barrier. His head tilts like a curious cat as he studies Stiles.

“I have stolen a lot of things: life, breath, time. You will have to be more specific _Statera_ ,” Tartarus says, slow and indulgent. 

“Life,” says Stiles. He does not dare look at the graves by the God’s feet. The moment he brings emotion into this Tartarus will have the upper hand. Right now Stiles has the place of power. He would like to keep it that way. “More specifically, the lives you tore out of the design before their time.”

“I am the God of Death. It is my right to take whoever I see fit,” says Tartarus, voice sharp.

Stiles narrows his eyes. He can feel the threads of energy that bind Tartarus to the universal order the same as him, the same as all beings of creation. Stiles can see them, branching off his body in every conceivable direction, binding him to the earth as surely as a fly caught in a spiders web.

“You are not an agent of chaos Tartarus. You do as you are guided just like the rest of us.”

Tartarus sneers, an ugly look on his handsome face. “No one controls the God of Death.”

“Someone does.”

Quicker than Stiles can blink Tartarus is before the dais, breathing heavily, an ugly look in his eyes. He cannot step up onto the dais. The ritual and the runes prevent him from touching the stone, but his form is tall enough that he meets Stiles at eye-level without any difficulty. 

“You know nothing,” he hisses.

“I know you sent the Nogitsune that killed Allison Argent, the future matriarch of the Argent clan. I know you murdered the woman who would have brought change to the Argent family and eventually the whole hunter community, who would have made hunters a force for balance in the universe.”

Tartarus laughs mockingly. “You don’t know that.”

“You said it yourself. I am a _Statera_. It is my privilege to know.” Stiles doesn’t break eye-contact with Tartarus as the other God leans as far forward into his space as the protective runes will allow and snaps his teeth like a hungry dog. “I know you tried to use the Nogitsune to kill me before I reached my majority and became a _Statera_ …I know you’re afraid of me,” Stiles says. 

Tartarus scoffs, eyes mean and hard. “Why would I be afraid of you? You’re a little god. _Statera_ or not. Those wings mean nothing _Angelus_. I am as old as the Earth itself. I am a Titan God. One of the first. Primordial.” Tartarus sneers. “You are nothing compared to me.”

Stiles tracks Tartarus where he is pacing before the dais, noting the way he skirts around the barrier.

“Because I can control you. Because even with all your power you still can’t touch me,” Stiles whispers.

Tartarus lunges for his throat and is thrown back by the barrier, landing heavily. Stiles’ heart beats a frantic tattoo against his ribs, but he manages to keep his composure.

“Because you are bound in ways that I am not. Because I can see what you cannot.” Stiles continues. He can’t help but smile mockingly at Tartarus as he struggles to climb to his feet, winded by the power of the attack. It’s probably weak and shaky as hell, but at least it’s there. “Take your pick.”

Tartarus eyes the moonstone circle angrily before staring up at Stiles with hateful eyes. “What do you want _Statera_?”

“I want you to fix what you have broken.”

The answer comes easily to Stiles’ tongue. Months of waiting and planning and hoping condensed down into eight little words. This is it. This is what needs to be done to restore balance. He can feel the answering hum from the Earth and knows this is right. That he is on the right path. 

It is a powerful feeling.

Tartarus strides forward until he’s as far in Stiles face as he can go without being thrown back again. “And if I don’t? What will you do then little God?”

Stiles gives the only answer he can as a _Statera_ and as a person. 

“I will wipe you from existence.”

Tartarus falters. “You cannot do that.” Tartarus says, but he sounds unsure. “You don’t have that kind of power.”

“No, but I am _Statera_.” Stiles smiles, feeling his own bindings run deep into the heart of the earth where Gaea lives and responds to his call. Stiles draws up a fraction of her primordial strength and lets his aura glow to outshine Tartarus’ tenfold. The God’s eyes widen with fear. “I can borrow it. I have enough evidence to label you as a force for chaos Tartarus. It is completely within my rights to remove you from creation to preserve the balance. I would prefer not to have to do that.”

Stiles steps forward, away from the protection of the dais and Tartarus almost stumbles over his robe to get away.

Stiles lets righteous fury give power to his voice so that it echoes within the moonstone circle like a megaphone blast. Tartarus shrinks away. “I know you used Melinoe to drive Kate Argent insane Tartarus. I know she gave Kate nightmarish visions of the Hale wolves and false dreams of what they would become because you commanded her to do so. You made Kate Argent a monster of your own design. Every supernatural death in Beacon Hills can be traced back to you. If Kate Argent hadn’t killed the Hale family Peter Hale would have never gone insane, Scott McCall would have never been bitten and become a true alpha, Gerard Argent would never have come to Beacon Hills and commanded the Kanima to murder in his name, The Alpha pack would never have sensed the weakness of the Hale pack with Derek Hale as default alpha and Vernon Boyd and Erica Reyes would not have been caught in the crossfire. And as I said before, if you had never meddled Allison Argent wouldn’t have died before her time, taking the last hope for peace between hunters and the supernatural along with her.”

“I know what you’ve done Tartarus… and now you’re going to fix it.”

Tartarus clenches his jaw, white as a sheet and trembling slightly as he cowers away from the power in Stiles’ aura. 

Stiles lets the power flare, bright white and furious and Tartarus scuttles away, hissing and shielding his eyes. “Are you going to do what I say or am I going to have to obliterate you?”

Tartarus won’t look at him or reply with words, but Stiles can sense his defeat all the same. Tartarus is old enough that the thought of not existing is far more frightening than losing face in front of a lesser God. Tartarus will do what he has to do to survive. Deciding he is safe for now, Stiles turns away to get the rowan bowl from the dais. He returns when Tartarus is standing, the other God surveying the fresh graves with unblinking concentration.

“You managed to retrieve all their bones. Impressive.”

Stiles ignores him, handing Tartarus the rowan bowl. 

Tartarus sniffs, drawn face morphing into a handsome grin full of mischief. Stiles tries not to let his surprise show. Figures the God of Death would shake off defeat better than other Gods. Stiles shudders to think what would have happened if it had been Hades in the other Gods place.

“Wine,” Tartarus says appreciatively. “Oh I definitely like you _Statera_.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Do you accept my offering?” Stiles speaks the ritual words and waits impatiently as Tartarus runs his fingers over the honour carvings in the otherwise smooth wood.

Tartarus opens his mouth like he’s going to comment on the bowl and Stiles snaps. “Jesus Christ just drink it you dick.”

Tartarus grins wider. “What’s your name _Statera_?” Tartarus searches his eyes and when it becomes obvious Stiles isn’t going to tell him, his eyes grow distant. Stiles almost startles when he realises Tartarus is checking the Asharkik records. He thinks about diving in quickly and hiding his file somewhere the other God won’t find it, but quickly realises he’s being ridiculous. Stiles wouldn’t want to leave his body unattended for that long anyway. 

Tartarus blinks his vision clear and his eyes soften to the point where he almost doesn’t look like a smarmy dick. Almost. Stiles wonders what else Tartarus saw in his file. “I accept your offering Mikael.”

Stiles holds his breath as Tartarus drinks the wine. The God’s eyes flare purple and his aura expands to the perimeter of the circle. The power snaps back into him as he finishes the wine. Tartarus drops to his knees before the graves, the empty bowl rolling away.

Tartarus takes the wine he consumed—the essence of life and pack—and breathes it back into the graves as a large cloud of deep purple smoke. Stiles’ eyes burn silver and he can see the life breath penetrate the Earth and sink into the bones of all eleven graves. Stiles watches, rapturous, as the bodies reform: bones knitting together to form eleven distinct skeletons, blood and cells and tissue and organs and skin spinning themselves into being out of Tartarus’ breath and the minerals in the surrounding Earth.

Tears drip down Stiles’ face as he watches them reform under the Earth. This is it. This is what he’s been waiting for. This is what the world’s been waiting for. Stiles can feel the universe righting itself, the design healing and reforming the way it was always supposed to be. 

Stiles falls to his knees, his legs unable to support him anymore. The bravado falls away and all of a sudden he’s just Stiles Stilinski. He’s just a guy. A deliriously happily, relieved guy, who gets to see his friends again: who gets to hug Allison because she gives the best hugs in the whole world, yank on Boyd’s ear because it annoys him, and flirt with Erica just to see her smile. 

_Finally_ , he thinks, _fucking finally_

Tartarus is staring at him, Stiles can feel it, but he can’t bear to look away from his friends for even a moment. “I release you,” Stiles says and feels the barrier between worlds snap and fade, allowing Tartarus to return to his realm. 

Tartarus waits a few moments, seemingly contemplative and says, “I hope to see you again Mikael. This has been... enlightening.”

Stiles feels Tartarus leave, the yawning crack in the Earth closing behind him.

The bodies are almost completely reformed when Stiles comes back to himself, shakes off his stupor and rises to his feet to collect his materials. He can’t be here when they wake up. It’s one thing to know that werewolves are real, it’s a complete other thing to know Gods are alive and kicking in modern times. Stiles severely doubts the idea that Gods are not only _a thing_ , but sometimes take the form of skinny, hyperactive eighteen years olds with coordination issues would go down half as well as werewolves and banshees.

Stiles is just collecting the last of the moonstone into a woven bag when the first hand breaks through the ground and claws at the open air. It’s Talia Hale he knows, the former alpha of the Hale pack beating the others to the surface. Stiles stands before her makeshift grave fully clothed and his eyes pulse silver as he grabs her hand. He seeks out his connection to Scott and finds the core of power within him, the power he unknowingly inherited from Talia Hale. Stiles returns the power of the true alpha to its rightful owner and feels her grip strengthen. Yes. The Hale pack will be strong again.

 _It’s all going to be okay_ , Stiles thinks.

Three other hands break the surface and Stiles grins, shouldering his satchel and retreating into the trees. He whips off his shirt, stretching out his wings and takes flight, landing on the other side of town in almost the same instance he left. He’s getting faster.

Stiles pats the hood of his jeep. “Time to go home lovely.”

Stiles is heading down Hester lane when a chorus of howls meet his ears and a few minutes later his phone lights up with Scott’s number.

Stiles grins at the open road.

 _Finally_ , he thinks.


	2. The Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles looks into the mirror and doesn't like what he finds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay guys. I have a bunch of excuses that you probably have no interest in hearing, so I'll just let you get on with reading. Enjoy!
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter: Mild descriptions of gore

“Oh it’s so pathetic. I think I’m going to throw up.”

Stiles tilts his head back against the tree he’s sitting under and looks up at Lydia. She’s leaning casually against the bark, pastel pink dress swaying gently around her knees, hair twisted in an elaborate up-do that somehow manages to look intricate and casually dishevelled at the same time. She’d look lovely if not for the ugly twist of her red lips and the scowl in her eyes. 

Stiles follows her line of sight, and sees Scott trying to pluck up the courage to walk over and talk to Allison. Allison who’s sitting under the bleachers pretending to read a book so she doesn’t have to talk to anyone—the same thing she’s been doing all week since she came back from the dead. Which…yeah. Stiles didn’t really think about what would happen _after_ he resurrected everyone. In hindsight, it was pretty naïve to think things would just go back to normal. Dying has got to be pretty traumatic. Probably Allison needs time alone to work through all the emotional baggage?

“Give her time,” says Stiles sagely, because isn’t that what people say? Give it time? Time heals all wounds, yada yada yada? It sounds right anyway.

Stiles yelps when Lydia expresses her opinion of his advice by trying to shove her six-inch nude stiletto through his hand. 

Rubbing his abused skin, Stiles sends her a wounded look which she, predictably, ignores with a haughty sniff and a dismissive hair-toss. 

“Stop talking Stiles.”

“You stop talking,” he mutters.

Lydia shoots him a sharp look and Stiles almost swallows his tongue, because _oh my god she’s so scary_. “I don’t want platitudes Stilinski. I want you to nod and agree with me that they’re nausea inducing so we can figure out a way to fix it. This whole situation is making it difficult for me to get my beauty sleep,” Lydia purses her lips and Stiles notices the faint bags under her eyes for the first time. “Concealer can only hide so much and I like my skin to have the natural glow of the well-rested, rather than the dull cakey sheen of the pancaked bitches that populate this dismal excuse for a school.”

Lydia sits down beside him and steals the pretzels out of his hand, nudging—shoving—Stiles into the scorching sun. Stiles would glare at her and demand the shady spot back if he wasn’t so busy being impressed by the sheer _scope_ of her entitlement complex. 

“You need to make your lapdog stop acting like a love-struck puppy. He keeps staring. It’s making Allison uncomfortable and I will not stand for my best friend being made to feel distressed in any way right now.” Lydia gives him a stern look that promises a slow, painful demise if he doesn’t take everything she’s saying absolutely seriously. Stiles swears his balls crawl up inside his body. “She’s just come back from the dead Stiles. The last thing she needs is Scott obsessing over her again. She can barely scrape together the composure to go to class. The teenage drama can wait.”

Well, at least they can agree on something. Stiles has had enough teenage drama to last him a lifetime.

Lydia looks over at Scott and scoffs, rolling her eyes. Stiles looks too and sees Kira tugging on Scott’s arm, trying to direct his attention towards the phone in her hands, her bright smile wavering the longer it takes for Scott to look at her. Lydia makes a disapproving noise and Stiles winces. 

“Oh Scotty boy, no,” Stiles moans.

Lydia clicks her tongue, and her eyes sharpen dangerously. “Even though I’m _sure_ he hasn’t noticed because your idiot best friend’s got the observational awareness of a particularly dense brick, Kira definitely isn’t happy about his obsession either.”

“What am I supposed to do about it?” Stiles asks, throwing his hands up. “If you haven’t noticed Scott isn’t exactly the type of guy who takes rational advice when it comes to the girls he’s obsessed with.”

Lydia rolls her eyes, like his protestations are trivial and beneath her notice. “I don’t care. You need to fix it.” She shoves a finger in his face. “Your pet, your problem.”

“He’s not a dog that’s shit on the rug Lydia. I can’t clean up all his messes.” Stiles tilts his head at Lydia, imploring her with big, brown eyes that do not make so much as a dint in her forbidding expression. 

If Stiles thought he could find a way to make Lydia understand the importance of Scott starting to deal with his own shit, _without_ admitting to the whole god thing, he’d be all over it. Unfortunately, Stiles doesn’t think she’d take kindly to the fact that he’s pretty much duty-bound by Gaia to meddle in her life for the good of the universal balance. It is one thing to know your friend is a god, it is quite another to know he has the power to alter your life beyond recognition or even wipe you from existence entirely for the sake of some primordial being beyond the scope of comprehension. 

How would Stiles even begin to explain that in order for Scott to grow into the man he’s destined to become, Stiles can’t keep coming to his rescue? How would he even justify Scott needing room to grow, away from safety, away from _Stiles_? The answer is he couldn’t. He can’t. Not without sacrificing the trust and loyalty of his friends. 

It might be selfish, but Stiles isn’t ready to give them up just yet. He _likes_ that when Lydia and Scott look at him, all they see is Stiles: nerdy, gangly, uncoordinated, _human_ Stiles—who tries too hard and smells like nervous-sweat and the good kind of cheese. He’s just got the pack back together again. He couldn’t bear it if they all started looking at him differently. Stiles thinks it would break him to be shunned.

“If I knew a way to makes Scott stop acting like an idiot don’t you think I would’ve tried it by now?” Stiles says instead of a million other probably more appropriate responses. He flashes Lydia a cheeky smile, because it’s easy and it’s expected, and he knows Lydia won’t look past it. 

Sure enough, Lydia rolls her eyes and huffs, slumping a little. Stiles cheers inside, because that’s a concession if ever he’s seen one. Or at least as close as Lydia Martin gets to conceding _anything_.

“Fine,” she says, decisive, but obviously annoyed about it. “But at least get him to stop staring so obviously and tell him to pay more attention to his girlfriend. Kira doesn’t strike me as a vindictive person, but there’s only so far a woman can be pushed before she snaps and reaches for the knife block.”

Lydia gives him a sickly sweet smile and Stiles feels nauseous. “Right,” Stiles says faintly, “I’ll do that.”

He will too. Scott may need to learn some independence, but that won’t do him any good if he neglects his girlfriend into _murdering_ him first. 

Lydia nibbles on a pretzel delicately and licks her red-stained lips to catch a couple of stray crumbs. She brings her thumb up to check the line of her lipstick before sucking that into her mouth too, releasing it with a small, wet, pop. She gives an absent little sigh. Stiles stares because…yeah. Lydia is always going to be the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, and he’s never going to stop being struck-dumb by her radiance. 

“So, have you heard from Deaton?”

It takes Stiles a minute to comprehend that Lydia’s asked him a question because his brain is still replaying the image of Lydia tracing the plush curve of her bottom lip with her thumb. “What?”

Lydia smacks him and he winces, ducking his head away from a second slap when his eyes drop to the generous vee of her dress.

“Get your head out of the gutter Stilinski,” Lydia hisses, but she’s smirking a little and her eyes are a little softer around the edges than usual so he knows she’s at least a little flattered. Have they reached a stage in their friendship where Stiles’ borderline worship is kind of endearing instead of creepy and weird? God he hopes so.

“You got it boss,” Stiles says, trying to keep the goofy grin off his face. Lydia chucks a pretzel at him so he probably isn’t all that successful. She’s still smiling though.

“Deaton?” she prompts and Stiles nods, the mood turning abruptly serious.

“I got a message yesterday. Three short pulses, one long.”

Lydia sighs. “Another cold lead. Derek must be getting frustrated.”

Stiles would pay folding money on that being a pretty vast understatement. Furious is the word he’d use. Or maybe even livid, depending on what conditions the two of them have found themselves in. 

Derek can’t use the ley lines to communicate like he and Deaton can, and yet, yesterday afternoon, Stiles _swore_ he felt a flash of Derek’s hopeless, directionless rage over the loss of his sister through the connection. But then Stiles is probably just imagining things. Maybe he actually misses the big lug? 

Stiles shudders. God that’s a scary thought.

Cora isn’t dead. At least they don’t think she is. Derek lost all communication with her about a month ago and immediately high-tailed it to Mexico to track her down. He tracked her scent to an old Caliveras safe house and found only weeks old blood, torture implements, and broken shackles. When _Derek_ went silent a couple of days later, Deaton volunteered to drive down and find Derek himself. Stiles still doesn’t know what the old druid’s angle is, but he’s less worried about that than the fact that after Deaton rescued Derek from an anonymous hunter base, they had to cut off all verbal communication for their own safety. The only way the pack can communicate with them now is through the ley lines, and only in energetic pulses that correspond to a code Deaton made Stiles memorise before he left. It’s long and convoluted and distressingly bleak, but covers all the necessities. If they’re in danger, or in need of a rescue, Stiles will know.

“Derek’s life is frustration,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure he’s used to it by now.”

Lydia sends him an unimpressed look which Stiles ignores, snatching his pretzels back and taking a pointed munch.

Lydia purses her lips. “Hm. Not for much longer.” She frowns, considering. “At least I hope not. Not even Derek could find a way to make his family’s resurrection a bad thing.”

Lydia seems to realise the incongruity of what she’s said, because she looks at Stiles for back up. “Right?”

Stiles hesitates because…yeah. Derek probably could. Stiles knows it. Lydia knows it. Everyone who has ever met Derek Hale ever knows it. Derek is one of those rare people who can make a win-win into a lose-lose, seemingly without effort. Derek makes horrible life decisions. Stiles has very little doubt that Derek is going to utterly fail to handle this situation in a manner that is at all emotionally mature. He’s not holding out much hope for a happy Hale reunion.

“Uh. Sure,” Stiles says instead, because there’s a limit to how much hope-crushing he can do in a day, and he already had to tell Carter, his four-year-old next door neighbour, that her new pet bunny was actually a rat, and that her mother would not appreciate her bringing it inside the house for carrots and lettuce.

“Whatever,” Lydia dismisses, “It’s not our problem anyway. _Our_ problem is the Hales in residence.”

Stiles snorts and folds his hands behind his head smugly. “They’re not going to be a problem.”

Lydia raises one elegant eyebrow. “Oh really Stiles? Would you care to share how you have come to this conclusion?”

“Bruce made cookies the other day and I got one.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“And _that_ is the reason behind your glowing endorsement of the zombie Hales?”

“No. Uh, well, not entirely. They’ve also stopped looking at me like I’m an unfortunate piece of gum that got stuck under their collective shoe. Now it’s more of an _oh well if he’s here we might as well feed him_ kind of thing. See. Progress!”

Lydia sends him an unimpressed look, like she suspected all along that his reasoning was stupid and she’s decidedly unsurprised to be proven right. 

“You’re our emissary,” Lydia says sternly. “And if I find out you fucked up the packs chances of getting in with the Hales I’m going to smite you.”

Stiles bites back a hysterical laugh, and nods as seriously as he can. Obviously it’s not serious enough because Lydia smacks him.

“I’m serious Stiles! Scott isn’t an alpha anymore, which means that technically the wolves are all omegas. _Scott_ is an omega. We need to join the Hale pack, and as our emissary it’s your job to keep an open line of communication with Talia Hale. As pack alpha, she has the final decision when it comes to initiating new pack members. If you annoy the Hales to death they might decide we’re all as useless as you, and our chances will be shot to hell.”

The bell rings and Lydia stands, brushing down her dress. She puts her hands on her hips. “You better not screw this up Stiles,” she warns, before flouncing away, leaving a trail of broken hearts behind her. 

Stiles bangs his head against the tree.

\--

“Yo, Scotty boy!” 

Stiles swings an arm around Scott’s shoulder and follows his sappy gaze to where Allison is rifling through her locker, casting furtive glances over her shoulder, frowning like she can feel she’s being watched. 

Stiles sighs and ruffles Scott’s hair. By this point he’s pretty much given up hope of Scott realising how creepy he is about this kind of thing. Still, it’s pretty painful to watch now that Allison is so obviously _not_ into it like she was before. Stiles really hopes this isn’t going to turn into an unrequited love situation. Somehow he doesn’t think Scott will take Allison spurning his feelings as well as Stiles has done with Lydia. 

Scott smacks his hand away from his hair and glares at Stiles, adorably befuddled. Like an angry toddler, Stiles thinks giddily. 

Scott is seriously too cute for words some times. 

“What do you want Stiles?” Scott grumps, like he’s been grumping all week since the dawn of the living dead last Friday. 

Stiles mightily resists the urge to roll his eyes, and instead shoves his hand in his pocket and pulls out a liquorice rope. He bites the end off, chewing merrily.

“Oh god Scotty so many things,” he says through a mouthful of food, “but right now the top spot on my list is pretty much dedicated to getting you to stop stalking Allison like the creepiest of creeps.”

Scott frowns. “I’m not stalking her.”

Stiles doesn’t roll his eyes. He _doesn’t_.

“You’ve been following her all day.”

“We’re in the same classes!” 

“You’re _staring_ Scotty, and it’s freaking her out.”

Scott sighs and rubs a hand through his hair. “I just can’t stop looking at her Stiles. She’s _here_ y’know?”

Stiles swallows, and there’s a fresh ache in his chest. “Yeah. I get that man.”

And he does. The grief of losing Allison weighed him down for months. Stiles spent weeks preparing for the ritual, plagued by the knowledge that if he failed to reign in Tartarus, he’d never get to see her sweet dimpled smile again, or hear her laugh at him and call him an idiot in that soft, fond voice. Sometimes he sees her around and he has to do a double take, close his eyes and ground his chakras to make sure this is all still real. That she’s really here.

“You are creeping her out though dude,” he feels compelled to point out.

Scott punches him in the arm and Stiles yelps.

“Delicate human Scotty! _Delicate human_!”

Scott snickers and Stiles continues to moan dramatically and hang himself over Scott’s body like a swooning maiden until Allison has scurried down the corridor and out of sight. She sends Stiles a grateful look over her shoulder before she disappears and Stiles winks at her.

Later, after he’s had a more serious talk to Scott about boundaries and Allison’s need for space during her recovery, he drags Scott back to his place for pizza and video games. They play Fable II, because Scott loves crappy fantasy adventure games and Stiles, unfortunately, loves Scott. 

Scott drops off to sleep on the spare mattress beside Stiles’ bed almost immediately after saying goodnight to his dad, and once Stiles is sure they’re both asleep, he grabs his kit-bag and sneaks outside. 

Stiles crosses his yard to the tree line and finds the circular groove in the base of the lone blackthorn tree. The blackthorns’ delicate white flowers and tall, willowy stature are at odds with the stout green-leafed trees that circumvent the yard, but Stiles has always felt a special kinship with the tree. According to his mother, it sprouted the same day he was born, and Stiles has always felt there was something significant about that, even if Rashid tells him it’s no more than a particularly magically conductive tree. 

Stiles waves a hand and the air shimmers as the groove fills with water, clear as black glass under the night sky. To be safe, Stiles places a mountain ash circle and a moonstone circle around the base of the tree. The mountain ash will inhibit any supernatural visitors, and the moonstone will make sure no one with ill-will can cross the barrier. It should be more than effective for what he plans to do tonight.

Reaching into his kit, Stiles removes his crystal pouch. The stones spill out onto the grass and Stiles runs his hand through them, feeling for the right one. He gets a flash of heat when his palm passes over the Azurite, and knows intuitively that he will see something important in the mirror tonight. 

Stiles places a hand on the roots on the blackthorn and feels the deep, comforting thrum of life within the tree. No matter what Rashid says, the tree always feels special to Stiles, like a friend he has yet to properly recognise. The blackthorn has been growing with him all his life. His mother used to sit him under it when he was a child, let him touch the wood with questing hands and babble to the young tree like an old friend. On those occasions, his mother would always smile, like she knew something he didn’t, and unpack their picnic with shaking hands. When he uses the blackthorn as a conduit for rituals, Stiles feels closer to her, like his mom is still sitting next to him wearing that secret smile.

Stiles slips the Azurite into the water and bends over the bowl, waiting for the ripples to settle. His own reflection stares back at him, silver eyes glowing as bright as the moon overhead.

“ _Revelare_ ,” Stiles murmurs and his reflection warps. Red, blue, and yellow swirl together at the centre of the mirror, a pinwheel of colour in the black of the water that spreads outwards like a blossoming flower and forms into a moving image that makes Stiles recoil. Stiles’ breath catches when he realises he’s looking at Derek. 

He’s covered in blood, barely conscious, and sprawled on the floor of an obscure looking warehouse. There’s pallet-racking behind him, filled with diesel engine parts and other anonymous mechanical equipment, but all Stiles can focus on is the hand Derek has clamped over his stomach where he is split open from hip to hip. There is a katana lying beside his body.

“Oh god,” Stiles whispers, feeling faint when he realises all that is keeping Derek’s organs inside his body is his own shaking arms. 

Even for a werewolf disembowelment is a fatal wound. It is one of the few things that will kill them. 

Stiles feels sick, and has to fight not to look away from the vision. He’s being showed this for a reason. Gaia wouldn’t show him this unless it had something to do with his duty as _Statera_. Whatever’s happening to Derek in this vision has to do with the balance. Somewhere in this vision is a future he will have to change.

Sound filters through the image and Stiles almost jumps when he hears his own voice in the vision, distorted like he’s hearing it through water. He can’t see himself, but Stiles recognises his own grief-rough voice when he hears it.

“Derek,” other Stiles chokes, “I’m so sorry Derek.”

To Stiles’ amazement, Derek raises his eyes and looks at other Stiles, smiling warmly. Derek has never smiled at Stiles. _Ever_.

The man really must be dying, Stiles thinks semi-hysterically.

“It’s okay,” Derek says hoarsely, “It’s okay Stiles.”

Other Stiles sobs. “I can’t.” He sounds close to a panic attack and Stiles feels a flush of empathy for other him. “I can’t do this Derek.”

Derek shudders and his face pales significantly. He lists to the side like he’s going to fall over, and there is the sound of frantic footfalls. Other Stiles has started running towards him.

“Don’t,” Derek barks, and the footsteps slow to a stop. “You can’t touch me.”

Other Stiles makes a wounded sound as Derek hacks, and struggles to force air into his lungs. 

“You can’t say that,” says other Stiles, voice cracking. “Don’t say that Derek.”

He’s pleading, and Stiles’ chest clenches. He promises himself right then that he won’t let this happen. Stiles is being shown this for a reason. It doesn’t have to happen. Derek doesn’t have to die like this. Stiles will take it to his grave, but he was kind of hoping death would stop following Derek around after he got his family back. As much as he doesn’t like to think about it, because Derek is a gigantic dick who hates him, Stiles wants some peace and quiet for the big lug. God knows he deserves it after so long as fates butt-monkey.

In the vision, Derek is so pale now that Stiles isn’t sure how he’s still alive. He’s fallen on his side, too weak to hold his body up. He’s not bleeding anymore, and his arms have fallen to his sides. His ruddy, swollen organs glisten in the light, and Stiles almost has to turn away. There’s not enough blood in his body left to circulate to his heart and brain. He’s working on borrowed time. It won’t be long now, Stiles thinks numbly. 

Somewhere deep down he knows this isn’t real, that this is the future his current time stream is heading towards without his interference. That he was made to interfere in situation such as these, but it still aches. The idea that this is something that could happen without his intervention is unthinkable. After everything he’s gone through, Derek shouldn’t have to die this way.

Other Stiles seems to know this too, because he makes a sound like he’s muffling sobs. Derek looks at other Stiles, something urgent in his eyes. “Stiles I...” Derek’s voice is barely more than a whisper, and when he tries to suck in another breath to continue, Stiles sees the exact moment when he realises that he can’t. Beyond the panic, and the fear, there is regret in Derek’s eyes, and he dies with his eyes locked on other Stiles.

Before the vision fades, Stiles sees himself run into view, sliding to his knees next to Derek’s body. Other Stiles screams and the vision cuts out. 

Stiles just sits there for a moment, eyes wide and unseeing. 

He banishes the mountain ash circle and collects the moonstone in a haze. Dimly he feels himself place the Azurite back in his kit, and wave his hand over the blackthorn to banish the mirror. When he gets upstairs Stiles practically falls into bed he’s so exhausted, but he doesn’t get to sleep for a long time.

\--

The next morning Lydia tells him he looks horrible and steals his hot-pockets before first period. Stiles spends the rest of the morning sulking, and thinking unkindly that Lydia won’t be keeping her perfect size two figure for long if she keeps stealing his greasy microwavable food. He and Danny have algebra together before lunch, and they spend the whole class flicking wadded up paper with increasingly dirty limericks at each other. They have to stop when one accidentally lands on Lydia’s desk and she sends them both a scathing look that promises their imminent demise if they don’t stop befouling her learning environment. 

After algebra, Stiles heads out towards the tree line behind the school. He nods at Lydia before he goes, and she returns the gesture, understanding. If he doesn’t come find her before lunch period is over she’ll know something went wrong.

Stiles slips his shoes off at the edge of the green and tracks the veins of energy that thread through the earth like an intricate spiders web. He follows them from the edge of the forest until he’s gone far enough that he can no longer see the green. His eyes burn silver and Stiles can suddenly see, rather than feel, the currents beneath the Earth. They glow white, like little threads of moonlight, gradually growing thicker the closer he gets towards the thick vein that feeds into the heart of the Earth. The ley line that connects Beacon Hills with Mexico is hidden beneath a dense covering of ferns. Stiles pushes them aside and kneels beside the vein of flowing white energy. It’s so large it spans twice as wide as Stile is tall, and Stiles knows he could follow it all the way around the world and back again if he wanted to. 

Stiles anchors his will into the ley line and sends two short pulses into the energy field, his customary greeting. He expects Deaton to respond within the minute, like he has the previous twenty times Stiles has done this, but after ten minutes without a response, Stiles knows something isn’t right.

Ley lines run like a network of veins under the earth and connect each part of Gaia to the others. Those versed in the natural magics like Deaton and Morrell can use them to heal their bodies and minds, recharge their internal stores of magic, and as a means of communication with others who are able to tap into the energy current—like Stiles. 

Since Deaton’s message yesterday that he and Derek had reached another dead end, and Stiles’ vision about Derek, Stiles has been worried. Not because he thinks Derek will die anytime soon. The vision clearly shows that Derek is supposed to die with Stiles there, so as long as Stiles stays away from him, Derek should be fine for the time being. No, what has him worried is the presence he can feel shadowing Deaton. It doesn’t feel malevolent, but it isn’t peaceful either. Stiles doesn’t know what its motives are. The only reason Stiles hasn’t already flown down there to scope out the situation is because it hasn’t made a move to interfere in their investigation. Until now. 

Now Stiles can’t get a hold of Deaton and there is no sign of the presence anywhere. 

_Right_ , Stiles thinks grimly, _time to intervene_

Stiles spreads is wings, and in a flash, he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revelare = 'reveal' in latin


	3. Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles has a lot of guilt, okay?

Tartarus sweeps into his private chambers above the pit of souls. The cries of the damned echo just outside the stone halls, but he scarcely hears them anymore. His home is set into the lowest mountainside of the Underworld overhanging the pit and the planes of misery, so that when he looks out over the balcony he has a lovely view of the souls of the condemned swimming in the waters of their eternal torment. They look up at him with wide, gaping mouths. Their pleading, empty eyes beg him from afar. He turns away. 

When he was a young god, in name if not years, he used to stare into the water for hours, looking into the eyes of every soul, scrolling through the rolodex of their sins the Asharkik records helpfully provided, trying to see, to understand why they would subject themselves to an eternity of agony for the base pleasure of a sinful century. He never found his answer. Some days, he believes he is still searching for it.

Tartarus conjures up a ball of blue flame and flicks it between his fingers, brows furrowed in deep thought.

The _Statera_ …

There is something strange about him, something just a little bit different. Not one of Gaea’s usual lapdogs, he thinks. The boy is spirited, driven in a way the other _Statera_ hadn’t been before the purge wiped them all out. Usually Gaea’s chosen were awestruck little gods who scrambled to do her bidding, mindless servants, cloyingly deferential to the point of disgust. This one however… this one has a purpose removed from Gaea, from the balance, a _humanity_ that is as shocking as it is impossible. There are no human gods, and yet… the _Statera_ is somehow tied to the earthly realm. This Mikael has bound himself in mortal flesh so completely that even Tartarus cannot detect the seams. Until his _Angelus_ form was revealed, he appeared completely human. If Tartarus had not seen, had not felt what the young _Statera_ could do firsthand, he would not have recognised him as one of the Primordial blood. 

It’s a troubling thought, not least of all because it will make tracking the boy that much harder. Beacon Hills is a small town, but not so small that a godly presence will go unnoticed by the _Statera_. The element of surprise will be essential when capturing the boy. Even a moment’s notice will be enough for the boy to gain the upper hand. Whoever Tartarus sends to apprehend the god must be quick and quiet.

He will not be an easy foe to beat, this _Statera_. A challenge. More than he’s had in a thousand years. If Tartarus is going to catch this kid, he’s going to need help.

Tartarus extinguishes the flame and runs a hand down Hypnos’ back. The other god mumbles and turns over slightly to crack open one sleepy blue eye. 

“I need you to do something for me,” he says quietly, mindful of the other god’s sensitivity to loud noises when coming out of a sleep trance. 

“Too early,” Hypnos groans, burying his face in his pillow. “Later.”

Tartarus hums, letting his hand trail down past the small of his lovers’ back to linger on the curve of his ass. Hypnos shivers. “Time has no meaning in the Underworld my love,” he reminds his lover. 

Hypnos turns over fully, legs tangling in the sheets, looking up at Tartarus with such sleepy contentment that on any other occasion, Tartarus would be tumbling them into the sheets to do delightfully dirty things. Now, it only makes him trace the line of his lovers’ sculpted nose and cheekbones. 

“I need your help.”

Hypnos’ eyes clear somewhat as he takes in the seriousness of his lovers’ request. The God of Sleep never quite loses the dreamlike haze in his eyes, but alertness can be compelled if given the right incentive.

“You wish to speak with Thanantos,” Hypnos says, sounding doubtful that such a thing is at all a good idea. Given that the last time Thanantos and Tartarus had been in the same room they’d caused a significant continental shift in East Asia, Tartarus is inclined to agree. Unfortunately, his options are limited. As the Lord of the Pit of Souls, he can’t rise to the surface unless summoned, and even then it is unnatural, like separating a limb from a body and having it move with independent will. His place is here, in Tartarus, as Hades’ eternal undertaker. He needs someone to travel to the human realm in his stead and Thanantos is the only one he can trust to be able to get rid of the boy without the unsubtle, violent flair typical of Chthonic deities. Effective though such bulldozer tactics may be, they are not suited for this circumstance. The _Statera_ would sense them long before they made it to his doorstep. Like it or not, Thanantos is still under his command. The God of Death will remember it before long. 

Hypnos rises, a white slip against the torch-lit darkness of their cave-like chamber. He steps naked into the floor pool and the water glows vivid blue around his body as he contacts his brother across the untold stretch of realms that separate them. Thanantos had been gone a long time, but it is time he returned home.

They have work to do. 

\--

“Azfalan,” Deaton says softly, inspecting the petals of a strange purple flower with burgundy thorns and stem, “is a night blooming flower. One I have not seen in many years.”

“So… Horticulture. That’s why you missed our check-in, made me panic for no reason, drop everything and fly to your rescue. Horticulture.”

Deaton strokes his chin. “Not exactly.”

Stiles’ wings tuck closed to his back and his face contorts to show how _unbelievably_ pissed off he is. Not only has he flown to Mexico at breakneck speed in the space of oh, say, _3 seconds_ , for no conceivable reason, Deaton is also now ignoring him in favour of examining some creepy looking flower for absolutely no reason he can fathom, except maybe to preserve his air of mystery. Which is stupid, because at this point Stiles has just been assuming Deaton’s air of mystery is actually just a cover for him being kind of slow. Given the number of times they’ve been in trouble and the man has done _absolutely nothing_ to help them, he wouldn’t be surprised. 

Stiles makes a sweeping ‘enlighten me’ gesture with his hand, before realising Deaton has actually now gone one step further than passively ignoring his existence and is now _actually_ turned away from him. He coughs. Pointedly.

Deaton sighs. “The Azfalan only blooms in the footsteps of magic,” he says cryptically. 

Stiles rolls his eyes, because holy fuck, all the druids in the world and he gets stuck with _this_ guy. Seriously? 

“Well hello! Not to state the obvious, but I’m here aren’t I?” Stiles sticks his hands in his pockets and finds his pants are already sticking to his legs with sweat. Eww. Fucking Mexico. “So are _you_ for that matter,” he mumbles, kicking some dirt in the air.

Stiles watches as the dirt settles over a couple of Azfalan flowers, who, well, don’t seem to _enjoy_ being covered in dirt, because a moment later flames are leaping from the petals, incinerating the mess.

“Huh,” says Stiles.

“You and I would not spark the Azfalan to bloom,” Deaton explains after a moment of strained, shocked silence. “There’s something else too.”

Deaton stands and Stiles comes up next to him, following the man’s eye-line to the two rows of Azfalan that seem to stretch impossibly far into the distance. 

“When I said they bloom in the footsteps of magic, I was not speaking figuratively.” Deaton looks at him meaningfully.

Stiles’ eyes widen, flaring silver. “Oh.”

He can see it now. The energy signature left behind by the footprints. The energy the Azfalan are feeding on, using to bloom, and, uh, kill stuff with fire. “I’ve never seen anything like it before,” Stiles admits.

“No,” Deaton muses, “I don’t believe it is of our world.”

“You’re being followed,” Stiles says, because if feels like the right time to tell him, and Stiles’ mind is whirling, connecting dots he doesn’t yet have a complete picture of. 

Deaton look at him curiously, searching his eyes. “You believe it to be dangerous?”

“I haven’t, like, sensed any bad juju or anything, but you should still be careful,” Stiles scowls, “ _and_ remember to check-in at the scheduled time. Geez.”

Deaton smirks, slight enough that Stiles almost doesn’t catch it. 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Ass.”

When he looks back, Deaton’s face is perfectly composed.

“You’d better get back to school Mr. Stilinski, before someone misses you.”

Stiles looks down at his watch and swears. Two minutes until Lydia sounds the alarm, before he’s got half the pack tracking his scent and finding it has inexplicably disappeared in the middle of the forest. Fuck. This is going to be the quickest flight of his life. 

\--

Lydia dogs his heels all the way to the Hale’s backyard, stopping just short of crossing the property line. She straightens his collar, and Stiles tries valiantly not to sneak a peek at her cleavage. Because he has standards now, and he can restrain his teenage boy urges. Well. Mostly. Also he kind of likes the way Lydia is treating him more like a favoured family pet and less like a litter runt that has snuck in to piss on her carpet. 

“Remember, speak clearly and concisely about our pack. State our terms, but be deferential. Talia Hale was a very well respected Alpha before her death, and that reputation lingers. She will expect your undivided attention, not to mention a damn good pitch. Her second will sit in on negotiations. Before the fire that was Peter, but seeing as he’s still rotting in the basement of Eichen House it will probably be her and one of her children. Most likely Laura. _Do not_ mention that you once dug up and defaced her grave.”

Stiles looks offended.

“Don’t give me that face. We both know that’s the kind of thing you would find inappropriately hilarious. No inappropriate humour Stiles!”

She jerks on his collar roughly, and he squirms out of her grip. “Ow! Fine. Geez, no need to molest me Lyds...”

Lydia huffs, blowing her bangs out of her face, but smooths her hand over the front of his chest, soothing. “This is important Stiles.”

“I know.”

“No distractions. You’re going to have to pay attention to everything that’s being said, and even what’s not being said. Look at their body language. Are they receptive, or are they closed off?”

“Yep.”

“No, seriously Stiles.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I _know_ Lydia. You’ve only said it a thousand times.”

Lydia scowls. “I’d say it a thousand more if I thought I’d actually get it through your thick skull. _You’re_ the one who’s been telling me that they’re barely tolerating you. You and I both know that’s not good enough Stiles.”

“Anything else?” Stiles asks sarcastically, crossing his arms, “Wanna tell me not to make any dog jokes, to make sure to use a knife and fork at dinner, to piss in the toilet not the backyard?”

“This is serious Stiles.”

“Yeah well maybe _you_ should go in and negotiate if you’re so clever. Stiles the screw up can go home and wallow in his ADHD and poor social skills.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Don’t be so melodramatic.” She sniffs, “Besides, you and I both know that only the emissary or the Alpha can negotiate a pack merger, and since our alpha is now an _omega_ along with the rest of the wolves, it’s up to you.”

“Unfortunately,” Stiles says, more than a little bitter.

Lydia looks at him, measuring. “I’m not so sure about that.” She hesitates. “It takes you a while Stiles, but you charm everyone in the end. I don’t think the Hale’s are going to be any exception. Just be patient. Be yourself.”

Stiles blinks, surprised. “I though you didn’t want me to be myself.”

Lydia smiles and ruffles his hair. “No stupid. I just want you to be your _best_ self.”

Stiles ducks his head, and Lydia’s smile softens. “Now get in there,” she order, no-nonsense tone back in full force. “And if you screw this up I’ll have your head stuffed and mounted on my trophy wall.” 

\--

“Niles!” Lyle cheers, running full tilt down the driveway and into Stiles’ arms. Stiles swing him up and around in circles, settling the kid on his hip. He steals Lyle’s nose a couple of times and manages to chase him around the house more times than is advisable before they make it indoors. By the time they do, Stiles, without the benefit of werewolf stamina that has Lyle giggling and jumping in an effort to be picked up again, is a sweating, panting, grinning mess. He’s sweated through the collar of his button up dress shirt and his knees have streaks of dirt on them from when managed to catch Lyle around the waist and roll them through a row of bushes. 

He hoists Lyle up again, who grabs Stiles’ face and smooshes his cheeks, fascinated. Lyle absolutely loves to squish Stiles. Why, Stiles has no idea, but seeing as Lyle is by far his favourite Hale and his biggest supporter, Stiles suffers manfully through the toddler treating his face like silly putty.

Felicity King opens the door before Stiles can knock, which is made doubly unsettling due to the fact Stiles knows for certain that she is a somewhat powerful Hedgewitch with absolutely no enhanced sensory capabilities (read: not a werewolf). 

She raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow when she sees the two of them on the doorstep. Her smirk is unsettlingly familiar and Stiles is forcefully reminded that she and Peter were more than likely a _terrifying_ couple, even before the fire. Really, it’s a wonder Lyle turned out as sweet as he has.

“Enjoying yourself?”

Stiles smiles brightly, only slightly hindered by Lyle pulling at both his cheeks in a way that’s really starting to hurt. “Yep!”

Felicity looks amused, but coolly so, and ushers him into the house. She seems unbothered by the fact that Lyle is almost completely ignoring her in favour of yanking on Stiles’ ears, which Stiles finds both refreshing and strange. He guesses it probably has something to do with the fact that the first time he crossed the Hale territory line, and was moments later surrounded by werewolves on all sides, Lyle ran straight up to him, thrust his arms in the air, and said “Up!”

At the time Felicity had merely looked at her son, at Stiles, back at her son, and said “Alright then,” before heading back up to the house. The rest of the Hales followed her example, but only after Talia had confirmed his status as the Emissary of the current Beacon Hills Pack and declared him not a threat on a probationary basis. This had left Stiles with an expectant toddler waiting to be carried back to his burned out husk of a home, and the uncomfortable feeling that he was walking into a situation he was not at all prepared for.

Not much has changed in the week since.

Felicity leads him into the dining room, the only part of the house Derek had bothered refurbishing when he was squatting, since obviously food was more important than like, sleep, or showers. Talia and Bruce are waiting for him, sipping tea, chatting. It might have been innocent small talk if not for the strained look on Bruce’s face and the furrow between Talia’s brows.

Stiles thinks about clearing his throat before remembering that they’re werewolves. He feels a bit ridiculous. 

Lyle slaps Stiles’ cheek, giggling madly when he goggles and splutters unattractively.

“Man!” Stiles enthuses, grinning manically. “You have a mean swing buddy!”

Lyle laugh-snorts, and Stiles grins wide enough to break his face. 

Seriously, best kid ever.

Stiles hears a throat being cleared and he stiffens immediately.

Talia Hale stares at him, blank faced and looking so much like her son it’s scary. Bruce is laughing behind his hand. Felicity… well, she always looks kind of bored with life. Stiles doesn’t know how she can already be bored one week back from the dead, but he’s getting the idea she’s the kind of person who’s just unimpressed by life in general. 

Lyle makes a questioning noise and grabs Stiles face to direct his attention where it belongs. “Niles,” he says disapprovingly. The mangled baby pronunciation of his name makes him grin. 

“Sorry buddy.”

Felicity, at the nod from her Alpha, moves forward and removes Lyle from his arms. The kid fusses, before quieting when Felicity murmurs something too quiet to hear into his ear and strokes the crown of his head. 

Lyle gives him a sleepy smile as Felicity rounds the corner to where Stiles knows they have sleeping bags set up in the living room while they’re rebuilding. It makes him sad to think of the Hales squatting in the open-roof husk of their family home while it gets rebuilt around them, but he thinks the rebuilding is probably the part they’re focusing on. Stiles should be doing the same. He can’t help but be sad though. Lyle shouldn’t be sleeping on the floor, no matter how cushy his sleeping bag.

“I have mattresses,” Stiles blurts, because tact is not a natural Stilinski trait, and even if it was, Stiles definitely would have found it too boring to bother with.

Talia stares at him for a long time while Stiles squirms. She’s frustratingly unreadable, and all Stiles can hear is Lydia screeching in his head, calling him a witless moon, yelling at him not to fuck this up.

“Mattresses?” Bruce says eventually, something intrigued swimming in his eyes.

Stiles jumps on his question like a life raft. “Yeah! Uh…My dad, the Sherriff, you know the Sherriff? Of course you know the Sherriff, sorry, stupid question, although he was still a Deputy when you were alive, but he’s Sherriff now. Anyway, he got a bunch of linen and mattresses and stuff donated to the station when he and the precinct slept out under the stars to raise money for Make a Wish, and anyway they’re all just sitting in storage. I could, ah, get them for you guys, if you wanted? Lyle… Lyle should be sleeping on a mattress at least. He’s little, and it’s not fair that you guys have so much to deal with. I can do this, help, if… If you want. If that’s okay… I know you haven’t been able to access your money because, ah, you’re still technically dead and all, and Derek isn’t here to authorise you guys to withdraw from his account. I’m totally getting dad on that by the way. You’ll have to get new identities for legal purposes, but otherwise dad thinks it’s been long enough that with a bit of makeover and some creative storytelling, you could pass for distant relatives of the Hales, new to town, inheriting their family homestead...” Stiles trails off, feeling unaccountably awkward. 

Bruce starts to smile, but Talia’s look turns frosty. “And what repayment would you demand in exchange for such generosity?”

Stiles starts, taken aback. “Uh… Nothing?”

Talia tilts her head, walking round the kitchen island to stand in front of him. Stiles gets the distinct impression she’s sizing him up, that she has been all week, and she’s very close to forming a conclusion based on a plethora of unquestionably questionable evidence. 

“And if I said that I have no interest in your marauding pack of omegas, and wanted you off my land immediately, what would you say then?” Her eyes narrowed. “Remember, I can hear your heartbeat son.”

Stiles swallows. What would he say? If the Hales truly had no interest in absorbing the pack, if Talia turned out to be the kind of alpha that would leave good wolves to turn omega and go feral, if she held the negative judgement of one Emissary again a whole pack, what would he say? What would he do?

“I’d still help,” Stiles says, and is relieved to find that it’s the truth. “I mean, it’d be really stupid of you to turn us away because we’d be assets to your pack, and more than ever you need to build up strength, but even if you did make that decision I’d still give your kids a bed to sleep on. I’d still help your family build a life here. You’re people I can help. I’d want to do it regardless. I will help, if you let me.”

Talia stares at him for a long moment before smiling, before Stiles feel a hard clap on his shoulder and he’s spun around, looking into the grinning face of Laura Hale. “Congratulations! You passed!” 

“Huh?” 

Laura pull him into a hug that crushes the breath out of him and Stiles wheezes, before he’s being passed on to Bruce, Felicity, and then Hale’s are popping out of nowhere and he’s being embraced by nanna Serena, poppa Jethro and cousin Sue as well. Stiles’ head is spinning by the time he’s passed around to Talia. Her face is soft, how he always imagined Derek’s mother might look when he had occasion to think about it, and she’s smiling soft enough that Stiles feels inexplicably embarrassed. 

“Bring your pack around for lunch on Sunday Stiles. Barring no unforeseen complications or incompatibilities, we’d be honoured to have you join us.”

Stiles is supposed to bow to the alpha. That’s what he’s supposed to do. Etiquette, he remembers Lydia stressing, is vitally important when accepting an offer to merge packs. 

Stiles pulls her into a hug instead, burying his face in the alphas hair, grinning like a madman. Because, seriously. No one will ever know it, but he put _months_ into planning their resurrection, and finally, _finally_ , everything is going according to plan. It’s about time. He is so goddamn relieved he could cry. He laughs instead.

Talia echoes the sound a moment later, and Talia’s warm voice whispers in his ear. “I think we’re going to get along just fine Stiles Stilinski.” 

\--

Later, Lyle is asleep on Stiles chest, one pudgy hand clinging to his collar as he drools on his shirt. Talia is watching her family eat pizza in a circle on the kitchen floor, seemingly content.

Stiles and Lyle sit next to her on top of the island. Just having finished hammering out the negotiations, Stiles is started to get a bit drowsy. The warm weight of Lyle on his chest is definitely not helping. They’d butted head over a couple of things, namely Stiles’ insistence that Scott be trained as an alpha, seeing as he was the previous true alpha before Talia came back from the dead. Seeing as Laura is next in the line of succession, Talia isn’t completely happy with the condition, but has conceded to take them both under her wing until such a time as the correct candidate presents themself. Stiles can tell Talia is quietly confident Laura is up to the challenge. What Stiles doesn’t tell her is that the mirror has told him otherwise. Talia has her supernatural advantages, Stiles has his. 

Talia’s eyes drift, and she asks the question Stiles has been dreading all week. “Are you going to tell me where my children are Emissary?”

Stiles swallows. “Deaton said he spoke with you.”

“Oh Alan came to see me before he went gallivanting off to Mexico to recover my missing children, but he rarely says what a mother wishes to hear.”

Stiles winces as Lyle shifts in his sleep and accidentally smacks Stiles in the face. Despite the heavy conversation, Talia smiles, reaching out and stroking her nephew’s hair.

“For me it has only been a week,” she says quietly, after a long moment. “For them… I can scarcely imagine how it must have felt, what it was like to lose us like they did, all at once. Laura doesn’t speak about their time in New York, but she is my daughter and I see more than she wishes me to. I can close my eyes and imagine them. Sad, lonely children, lost in the big city. How terrified they must have been…” Here her voice trails off, and she swallows.

Stiles looks away, blinking to clear the mistiness from his eyes. “Cora and Derek… They’re strong. If Laura’s anything like them, then she’s strong too. Good and strong.” Stiles ducks his head, looking out the window to avoid the alpha’s eyes. “Like you.”

He startles when Talia reaches out and pushes the hair from his eyes, letting her hand linger for a moment longer than necessary. “You have your mother’s features,” she says softly, “her sense of justice too I imagine.”

“You knew my mother?”

“She saved my life once.” Talia laughs, catching Stiles’ startled look. “But that’s a story for another time.”

Talia gathers their mugs and tucks the revised contract under her arm for review on Sunday. Stiles passes a groggy Lyle over to Felicity, who just _appears_ at his elbow like some kind of wraith, and when Stiles stands his feet and hands feel clumsy, like they’re too big for his body. It’s the shock, he thinks. The shock of Talia Hale and his mother knowing each other. The shock of his mother, inexplicably, saving the alpha’s life. 

“Oh and Stiles,” Talia says as she guides him towards the door, a motherly hand braced on his furthermost shoulder. “When you get word from Alan, please let me know.”

Stiles nods, because what else can he say, really? 

Talia’s place is here with her pack, not running off to Mexico in search of her lost children, even though that’s clearly what she wants to do. It must be killing her to rely on the cryptic communications of a man who speaks only in riddles and obscure existential quotes. The very least Stiles can do is tell her what he knows, which, at the moment, isn’t very much.

“They’re in Mexico city tracking a rogue sect of the Calaveras,” he blurts, wincing internally at his flustered voice.

Talia raises her head, but otherwise doesn’t react to the unsettling news that her only son is tracking a particularly ruthless faction of a powerful hunter family. 

_In for a penny, in for a pound_ , Stiles thinks semi-hysterically. 

“Deaton thinks they moved Cora to another location when he and Derek got too close. They’re closing in on her, but Mexico City is densely populated, and they have to move quietly and quickly to avoid attracting the attention of the Calaveras. It’s taking them longer than they’d like to find her.”

“What are they doing with her?”

Stiles hesitates.

“Stiles,” she says, a growl of warning in her voice that reminds Stiles hysterically of Derek. “What are they doing with my daughter?”

“Deaton thinks…” Stiles swallows, “he thinks they’re experimenting on her, seeing if they can find a way to induce a pack bond with hunter, make her obedient and loyal. Subservient. Deaton found chemicals, syringes they were injecting her with…”

Talia closes her eyes. “A fully programmable attack dog.”

Something about the strained quality of Talia’s voice makes Stiles wary, like maybe he’s said something he shouldn’t have. 

“Deaton didn’t tell you?—”

“—No, he didn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says quietly, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

Just like that, the expression wipes from Talia’s face, and she’s giving Stiles a sympathetic smile. She pulls him into a quick hug. “Just keep me updated.”

Stiles nods, feeling shittier than he has in a long time. He should never have said anything. Sometimes, he knows, Deaton keeps his silence for a reason.

\--

Stiles finds Melissa at the nurse’s station, a cup of tepid coffee cradled between her palms. When she sees him, she shakes her head, sympathy pulling at the lines of her mouth.

Stiles goes to see her anyway, pulling up the lone chair beside her bed and settling in for the remainder of visiting hours. 

Stiles doesn’t know what went wrong with her, what made her come back…wrong. Or at least different than the others. Some had taken longer to wake up than others, but she was the only one to not have woken up at all. Stiles didn’t know what he’d done wrong, only that something obviously had. He wonders, wherever she is, if Erica would have chosen this for herself, or if this is just one more choice she’d had taken from her.

“I’m sorry,” he says for the second time today. Somehow, this is even worse than Talia. Probably because he’s apologising for something he’s directly responsible for. He’s used to apologising for his fat mouth. Nothing new there. He’s never killed someone before though. Not directly at least.

Stiles doesn’t know what to say to her. Erica looks much the same as she did in the months before she died. She looks like a fallen warrior without her makeup, and Stiles aches to think that, once again, this was not something she would have chosen for herself.

A shadow falls over the other side of the bed, and Stiles looks up at Boyd.

“Any luck?”

Boyd nods. “I found Chris Argent. He’s on his way back from Paris.”

Stiles sighs, some of the weight falling from his shoulders. “Good. That’s good.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Isaac?”

“Chris passed your message onto him. I added my own, and something from Scott too.”

“And you’re sure he’ll respond?”

Boys shrugs. “He’s Isaac. If he wants to be found, he’ll find us.”

They fall silent. Boyd strokes Erica’s hand, so delicately Stiles has to look away.

“They say she’s braindead,” Boyd says, voice deep and full of regret, “but Peter Hale was in a coma for years while he healed. Years.”

He looks at Stiles. “It can’t be years Stiles, I won’t let it,” he says, almost fierce. Or as fierce as Boys ever gets. He deflates a little. “She wouldn’t want that. She wouldn’t.”

Stiles swallows, and wants to scream.

He stands abruptly from his chair. Boys startles at the sound the metal males as it screeches across the floor. “Got to go,” Stiles says, falsely bright, “forgot I was making dinner for dad. Later man!”

Stiles runs, slowing to a brisk walk as he passes Melissa at the nurse’s station, before breaking into a run again. Stiles gets outside and immediately throws up in some bushes.

_Oh god_ , he thinks, _I’ve killed her again, I’ve killed her_ …

“What’s wrong with you?” A voice asks, jarringly blunt.

Malia Tate stands in front of him, arms crossed.

“Bad fish,” Stiles says.

“No such thing,” Malia dismisses, before hauling him up by the arm with enough strength that Stiles comes off his feet a little. “Come on,” she says, towing him towards the car park.

Stiles splutters. “Excuse me, but where the hell do you think you’re taking me?!”

Malia looks at him like she thinks he’s stupid. “Home. Obviously.”

Stiles stares at her dumbly. “Like… My home?”

“Yeah. I’ll drop you off to get your car in the morning. No driving when you’re sick genius. It’s, like, Human 101.” Malia shoves him in the passenger seat of her red Hyundai. She rolls her eyes. “I would know.”

When they get back to Stiles’ place Malia shifts into coyote form, curls up, and falls asleep on his rug before Stiles can even awkwardly offer her the bed and slink off to sleep on the unfortunately lumpy couch. She’s still there in the morning, snoring uproariously, and Stiles manages to shower, get changed, do his homework, and make breakfast in the time it takes her to wake up and throw on yesterday’s clothes.

“So,” Malia says through a mouthful of food, “You gonna introduce me to my non-murderer family soon?”

Stiles chokes. With everything that’s happened, he’s completely forgotten to tell the Hale’s they have an illegitimate child to add to their collection. Squashing his panic, Stiles nods. “Yep. This Sunday. The whole pack’s doing lunch at the Hale house. That reminds me…”

Stiles sends off a quick text to Lydia, telling her about the lunch on Sunday, and the contract he and Talia negotiated over dinner. From the proud, yet entirely passive-aggressive reply he gets back, Stiles assumes Lydia was only an hour or two away from following through on her wall-mounting threat.

Malia drives him to get his car from the hospital and they spend most of first period passing notes about the homeless man who camps out in front of the nearby Starbucks. Stiles thinks he’s a CIA operative tapping phones on the down low. Malia thinks he’s a werecoyote, but then she thinks everyone who smells like dirt and rubbish also spent their childhood and early adolescence scavenging for food in the woods. Stiles doesn't have the heart to tell her otherwise.

Allison pulls him aside between second and third period. 

“I need your help,” she says urgently, eyes red-rimmed and darting from Stiles’ eyes, to his throat, and back again.

She grabs his hands, clinging tightly, and Stiles feels dread collect in his stomach like a poison.

“What?” He asks, pulling her out of sight, into an abandoned alcove between a group of lockers and a disabled bathroom. “What is it?”

“I need to die Stiles, and you’re the only one who can help me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Statera = 'Balance' and/or 'Scales' (in latin)  
> Angelus= 'Angel' (also in latin)
> 
> Should be updating this fortnightly. Woo! So excited.  
> PS: No beta reader so all mistakes are mine (sorry!)


End file.
